


Backstory

by Nyssa



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graham and Eric meet, attract, consummate, and wallow in the kind of hellish angst beloved by fanfic writers everywhere (or this one, anyway).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backstory

**Author's Note:**

> This was an attempt to fill in the blanks behind Graham's infamous remarks about Eric not knowing what homosexuality was, Eric's annoyance regarding same, their sometimes tense relationship, and the angry letter Eric wrote Graham shortly before Graham's death. Needless to say, this fic would not have been possible without generous help from _The Pythons' Autobiography_ and Michael Palin's _Diaries_. If you haven't read these wonderful Python books, do. They provide such wonderful insight into Graham, surely one of the most truly unique and fascinating individuals ever to don a Gumby hankie. I highly recommend them.

_September 1975_

 

He's not surprised when the phone rings, even though it's almost midnight, but he's not happy either. They've just arrived at the afterglow stage, the contented, sleepy, That-was-so-lovely-I-love-you-so-much stage, complete with lazy, cuddly kisses and her head on his shoulder and the certainty of nothing, nothing wrong in the world -- and no man wants to be dragged away from that. No woman, either. She moans in protest and clutches him tighter when he reaches reluctantly to answer it.

It's Graham, of course. He's making a habit of it.

"Mike? 's that you, old man?"

Michael feels an urgent impulse to slam the phone down. He resists it, but he doesn't try to keep the sharpness from his tone. "Graham, what the bloody hell are you playing at? Do you know what time it is?"

Graham sounds taken aback. "I'm -- I -- I need to go home, Mike. Nobody here -- nobody knows where I live. Nobody's -- I don't -- David's not home. I rang, but -- "

Michael swears again, under his breath. He feels Helen's light, calming hand on his arm.

"Where are you?"

Graham laughs, a liquid giggle that seems to go on and on. "Club. 's in Soho, I think. Don't remember -- " Michael hears a shout over the background buzz. "Velvet Spike," Graham continues with a snigger. "Larry says it's called th' Velvet Spike. 's new."

Mike has no idea who Larry is, and knows it's quite likely Graham doesn't either. He closes his eyes and gets a grip on his temper. "Can he give me the address?"

After endless indistinct mumbling at the other end, Larry, or someone, gets on the line and manages to convey the club's location. Mike scribbles it down on the bedside notepad before Graham takes the phone back.

"Gray? All right, stay there, I'll come and get you." He pauses. "Are you there?"

Graham mumbles an affirmative.

"Graham, listen to me. It's a hell of a long way to drive in the middle of the night. This is the last time, do you hear? I'm not doing this again. Gray?"

"Yeah," Graham replies, in such a chastened tone that Mike feels an unwanted tug of guilt. "'m sorry, Mikey, 'm sorry, don't be angry, I didn't mean to --"

Michael sighs heavily. "All right, all right. I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave." He replaces the phone in its cradle and sits for a moment, staring at it.

"He could ring for a cab," he says. "He just won't." He turns back to Helen. "I'm sorry, love."

He can see her faint smile in the dim moonglow from the window. "You should be," she says lightly. "You're an easy mark, and he knows it. And you both know it won't be the last time."

"It _will_ be," Michael says firmly. "It will."

"If it is," Helen says, "I'll know you've changed." She puts her arms round him and kisses his lips. "And I quite like you the way you are."

 

*****

 

It may be late, but Soho never sleeps. The Velvet Spike is just one of a string of gay clubs in the immediate area, and they're all still rocking when Michael arrives, squeezing his car into a too-small space across the road. The interior is so packed he has to push his way through the crowd with some force, repeating "Pardon" and "Sorry" over and over again, craning his neck for a glimpse of Graham, and trying to ignore the annoyed looks he gets, not to mention the appreciative ones. Finally, just as he's becoming desperate, he spots his quarry, holding court at a booth in the rear. Graham's surrounded by admirers, none of whom appear even moderately sober. But they have nothing on Graham himself, who has clearly slipped further down the drain since his phone conversation with Michael. His eyes are closed, and one of them, Michael notes with a shock, is sporting a lurid purple bruise. He's resting his head on the shoulder of a young, pouty-lipped fellow on his left who looks too fragile, and too drunk, to support Graham's lanky frame much longer.

Mike reaches across the table and shakes Graham gently by the shoulder. Graham's eyes open, the bruised one more slowly than the other, and he takes a moment to focus before recognition dawns. Then he cries joyfully, "Mikey!" as though greeting a much-missed relative. "'s our Mikey!"

"Come on, Gray, let's go home," Michael says quietly.

"Jesus," whispers the pouty-lipped lad, staring blearily at Michael. "You're one o' them, too. I watch you lot ever' week. Ever' fucking week, I do. Well, I did when you was still on." His face takes on an expression of comical indignation. "Funniest fucking programme on the telly. Why'd they take you off? Fucking BBC bastards, fucking -- "

"Larry, here," Graham remarks, gesturing vaguely at his muttering companion, "would like to register a formal complaint as to the competence --" he stumbles briefly over the word "-- the, ah, competence, of those entrusted with program planning at the British Broadcasting Corporation."

The show's end had, of course, been the Pythons' choice, not the BBC's, but this hardly seems the time or place to go into that. Michael feels his patience fraying.

"Graham, are you coming with me? You _did_ get me out of bed for that very reason, you know. I really think the least you can do -- "

The young man to Graham's right pokes him rudely in the ribs. "You got him out of bed at this hour?" he says, in tones of mock astonishment. "Why, you swine, you take him straight back there, this very instant!" He appraises Mike from head to toe. "Or I will."

Graham giggles, and Michael's had enough. "Fuck it, then," he snaps, and turns to leave, only to feel a hand gripping his elbow. He shakes it off, halfheartedly.

"Mikey, wait, wait, 'm coming -- damn it, Larry, let me up! -- don't go, Mike." Graham crawls over his acquaintances' legs and hurries after Michael, who sighs and lets him catch up.

"Mike, 'm sorry, don't be angry, don't --"

"All right! Will you just -- " Michael takes a deep breath and deliberately softens his voice. "Let's just go. It's late, I'll take you home, you'll go to bed and have a nice long sleep, all right?" He puts an arm gently around Graham's waist and guides him through the crowd to the door.

When they finally emerge into the cool night air, Graham has slipped into a much more amiable frame of mind. He sighs and relaxes, leaning trustingly against Mike.

"This's nice," he says, smiling sloppily at Michael as they cross the road. "Wish we could stay like this, don't you? Feels nice, being close. Wish we -- "

"Shhh," Mike says gently. "Here, mind your head." He helps Graham carefully into the passenger seat of the Mini.

By the time he slides behind the wheel, Graham has arranged himself as comfortably as possible, slumping down in the seat so his head doesn't brush the roof, his long legs in a tangle. In the harsh glare of the overhead streetlight, the black eye is an ugly splotch on his handsome face.

Mike pulls out into the road and waits until they're clear of the heavy nightlife traffic before he speaks. "Want to tell me about it?"

Graham's head rolls toward him on the headrest. "'Bout what?"

"Your eye."

Graham's brow knits. "I have beautiful eyes. Fucking beautiful. That what you wanted to know?"

Michael smothers a laugh, looking straight ahead. "One of them's an unusual colour tonight, that's all. The purple clashes with your tie. Rude of me to notice, I suppose."

"Royal purple," Graham mumbles. "Fitting."

Michael lets the subject drop. Graham is usually far more talkative drunk than sober, but not always.

For several miles there's no sound but the engine's hum and Graham's soft breathing. Combined with the lateness of the hour, it's a bit hypnotic, a bit lulling, and it comes as a slight shock when Graham finally speaks again.

"Eric," he says, slurring the name a bit.

Michael glances over at him, startled. "What?"

"Eric." Graham touches his injured eye gingerly. "Eric did it."

Michael blinks. "Eric _Idle_?"

Graham laughs. "That's the one. Blond chap? Long nose? Lovely little arse? "

"Why on earth -- " Mike stops abruptly as a suspicion dawns. "Did you -- "

"I asked him over for a drink." Graham spreads his hands innocently. "That's all, just thought he'd like a drink. Never see you lot anymore. Never see my friends. Nobody's ever home when I ring up, everybody's too busy to -- I mean, what the bloody hell am I meant to do, on my own?" His voice rises suddenly, frighteningly. "Tell me that! What the fucking hell do you expect me to -- "

"Gray," Michael says softly, "calm down."

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down! You don't know what it's like, you don't know what I -- "

"Calm down, or I'll stop the car and you can get out and walk." Michael's voice is very even and very firm.

To his relief, it works. Graham subsides, and slumps back against the seat. "'m sorry. Don't mean to shout at you, Mikey." He shakes his head very slowly. "Not you. You're m' friend, I know that. You love me, don't you? Don't you, Mike?"

"'Course I do," Michael says easily. "We all do."

Graham laughs again. "Glad you don't all show it the way he does."

"How many drinks did you have?"

"Well -- a few. Don't remember." He shrugs and closes his eyes wearily. "Things went a bit -- far."

Michael casts his eyes upward and sighs. "Jesus, Gray. What the hell is the matter with you?"

Graham smirks. "Nothing. Perfectly healthy, I'll have you know. Virile. Vigorous. Love a nice juicy bit of -- "

"Jesus."

Graham shrugs again. "He didn't hit me 'cos he didn't want it, if that's what you're thinking. That wasn't..." He trails off, then says softly, "That wasn't the reason."

"Gray, I really don't want to know -- "

"Just trying to help him, that's all, help him get his mind off his troubles." He sighs. "Best way in the world to do that's a good -- "

"Graham, shut up. Please, just shut up." Michael speaks as kindly as he can, but he has no desire to hear more. Graham's already told him far more than he'd ever wanted to know about Eric during previous inebriated late-night conversations. "We're almost home. Just relax and we'll be there before you know it."

Graham trails off into barely audible muttering, and says nothing else coherent until Michael pulls up in front of the house Graham shares with David. He helps Graham out of the car and supports him up the steps to the front door.

"Have you got your key?"

Graham stares blankly at him.

"Your key. So we can get inside."

"'s in my trousers pocket." Graham leers comically. "Want to reach in and get it?"

Michael manages a patient smile. "I'll let you do it."

Graham pouts, but retrieves the key and opens the door. They step into the sitting room, and Michael notes the two glasses on the coffee table, and the empty gin bottle. Without commenting, he guides Graham toward the stairs.

"All right, almost there. Watch your step and hold on to the banister. That's it, come on..."

They arrive at Graham and David's bedroom, with its wide bed, large fireplace, and carpet that feels thick enough to sink into up to one's ankles. Mike pushes Graham gently down on the messy, unmade bed, lifts his legs onto it, and removes his shoes. When he's done, he stands looking down, wincing, at Graham's swollen right eye.

"I think you need an ice pack for that. Have you got one? I'll go and look -- " But before he can take a step, Graham puts a hand on his arm.

"'s nothing," he mumbles, and yawns. "Doesn't matter. Stay with me, Mike. Please." His fingers stroke Michael's wrist, just over the pulse point.

Michael smiles and says lightly, "Can't do that. What would David say?"

Graham considers. "Congratulations. That's what he'd say." He breaks into helpless giggles.

Mike rolls his eyes. He gently loosens Graham's grip and places his hand on the bed. "Sleep well. I'll ring you tomorrow."

Graham yawns again. "That's what they all say," he says, and burrows comfortably down into his pillow. Michael hasn't even reached the doorway when he hears the soft snores behind him.

 

*****

 

 _April 1963_

 

Graham fancied blonds. He especially fancied blue-eyed blonds. John had once laughingly accused him of being in love with the mirror, since all the girls he pulled (there weren't many, of course, but he made a point of flaunting them) were blue-eyed blonds like himself. Graham had brushed off the remark with some tasteless joke about breeding an Aryan super-race and getting it right this time, but it annoyed him just the same. He was no narcissist. There were a great many things about himself that he disliked intensely, was even ashamed of. He had little inclination for the kind of campy, swishy preening about that people seemed to expect of homosexuals, and he didn't consider himself particularly good-looking, either. But he liked pretty people, of both sexes, with a strong leaning towards boys. He wasn't quite ready to proclaim this from the rooftops, but it was an indisputable fact. And working in theatre (well, just messing about in comedy revues, really -- he certainly didn't expect it to lead anywhere) provided him with varied opportunities to meet pretty people.

He met one at the Cambridge Footlights Revue. That year's show was called _A Clump of Plinths_ , and it was a good one. Graham knew enough about performing by then to appreciate great comedic timing, and the young man who did a comic weather report (John had written that, Graham realised) definitely had it. Graham needed no experience to recognise the lad's other attractive attributes. He had a shock of thick blond hair that perched untidily atop his head, giving such an appearance of precariousness that Graham at first thought it was a wig. His blue eyes were very blue indeed, and they swept the audience intently, left to right and back again, as though daring them not to respond. They were sharp eyes, and in that respect they fit perfectly with the rest of him. He was slim and angular, and his plain grey suit hung loosely on him, flapping when he moved quickly, smoothly, about the stage.

Graham was enthralled. His own part in the show was finished, and he was watching from the audience, not the wings, because he wanted to study the performers, to see what the crowd saw. One could learn more that way, he was convinced, than any other. And he did want to learn. Performing fascinated him, and even though he had no intention of letting it lure him from his chosen career path, there was certainly no harm in improving oneself.

After the show, he joined the others backstage with the intention of meeting the young man in the ill-fitting suit. Graham was a shy, introverted person who was not comfortable introducing himself to strangers, but he could remedy that easily enough with drink. He'd had a drink or two before he went onstage, it being so much easier to _get_ onstage that way, and one or two more after he left it. By the time the show was over, he was warm, relaxed, confident, and quite forgetful of his shyness. He was someone else altogether, and he loved it. It was like performing, with the added bonus that one didn't have to learn lines.

The backstage area was a whirl of laughter, glass-clinking, shouted congratulations, and exclamations of relief. John -- cool, self-contained John Cleese -- grabbed Graham the moment he walked through the door, literally whooped with delight, and pulled him into a quick but crushing embrace.

"They loved it, you bastard, they loved it! Did you see their faces? Do you hear that?" He gestured toward the stage door, behind which applause and laughter still rang. "We could do another hour! We could do another entire bloody show! Do you _hear_ that?"

Graham stared at him in fascination. He was feeling considerable exhilaration himself, but John's eyes were positively _shining_. And Graham knew John hadn't drunk nearly as much as he had. He never did. Graham could only conclude that he was seeing the results of a natural adrenaline rush, a state he himself could somehow never seem to achieve unaided.

"Yeah," he replied with a laugh. "Seems to have gone over quite well indeed."

" _Quite well indeed_ ," John repeated with a scornful twist of his lip. "What are you bloody talking about? We're a smash!"

"Yes, yes, all right, we're a smash!" Graham laughed again, and gave John a congratulatory pat on the back. "I, er, I especially liked the weather report bit. Didn't know we were doing that."

"'Cos you're always going off to bloody St. Bart's or wherever you bloody disappear to. Don't know what's happening half the time, do ya?" John's tone was needling, but not accusatory. He was clearly in too good a mood for resentment. "Bet you haven't even met Eric, have you? The chap who did the weather report?"

"Eric?" Graham sipped off-handedly at his gin and tonic . "No, no, don't believe so. New, is he?"

"He's a freshman. Name's Idle, Eric Idle. Bit rough around the edges, but seems a decent enough sort. He writes, too, but we couldn't fit any of his material in. Like to come and meet him?"

Graham didn't decline. He let John steer him across the crowded room to a small knot of merrymakers in a corner. The lad he'd so admired on stage stood in the centre of the group, laughing, talking animatedly to his fellows, and drinking something Graham judged, from the colour, to be scotch. The blue eyes, Graham noticed, were as much aglow as John's. He was so lost in contemplation of them that he barely heard John's words of introduction before the boy -- Eric, he reminded himself -- extended a hand to him.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, in flat, drawling tones. "You're a doctor, then?"

Graham shook himself mentally and clasped Eric's slender hand with pleasure. He had to make a conscious effort to let it go. "Er, yes. That is, I shall be. I hope. I mean, I plan to -- "

"A pity, that." Eric laughed, easily. "I watched you tonight. You're good, mate. Don't know how good you are at medicine, but if you leave off performing it'll be a loss."

Graham felt heat rise in his face at the praise, and quickly took a swallow of his drink. The relaxation he'd managed to attain was slipping rapidly away. The thought of this beautiful creature watching him onstage made his stomach tremble slightly.

"I -- " he began, and floundered to a stop. "That's, er, very kind of you."

"Not a bit. John said you had a great deal of talent, and he was right."

Graham managed a laugh, but he was astonished. John had never given him any indication that he thought him more than a passable performer, and a considerably less gifted writer. "Oh, you mustn't take John too seriously. He doesn't mean half of what he says."

Eric gave him a quizzical look. "You shouldn't do that, you know. Put yourself down that way."

Graham realised suddenly that Eric's eyes had never left his since the moment they were introduced. He glanced away in confusion, and noticed that they were almost alone. John had disappeared, and Eric's friends had dispersed to the four corners of the room. He drained his glass quickly, and looked longingly round for another.

Eric laughed again. "Thirsty, eh? Don't let me stop you." He turned away, raising his own drink to his lips, and wandered off into the crowd. Graham stared helplessly after him, wrestling with a tangled knot of desire, disappointment, desperation, and self-disgust. He knew of only one way to deal with such a stormy emotional state. He made his way quickly to the bar.

He had three more drinks, in quick succession. After the third, he was numb, unsteady, and fuzzily determined to continue his aborted conversation with Eric. This time he wouldn't blush and stammer and behave like a bloody idiot, damn it. This time he'd talk to him, really talk to him. And if given half an opening, he'd get him alone, somehow. The thought made his heart pound.

He made his way through the crowd, nodding distractedly at friends, brushing off compliments, looking this way and that. The floor refused to remain stationary, and he bumped hard into someone, someone who turned round and said with a chuckle, "You _were_ thirsty, weren't you?" Eric caught his arm quickly before he could fall. Graham leaned against him gratefully.

"'m all right," he said, making an effort not to slur the words. "Just need -- ah, some air." He gestured vaguely toward the rear door. It opened, he knew, onto a lawn bordered by a stand of trees.

Eric looked amused. "Looks more like you need a bed. Place to sleep it off, eh?"

Graham blinked slowly, trying to decipher the meaning of the words. Eric's hand was warm on his arm.

"Here, come on, we'll go outdoors." He slipped an arm around Graham's waist and steered him toward the door. Graham closed his eyes and let him do it, marveling dimly at his good fortune.

They emerged from the theatre onto the dry, early spring lawn, and Eric closed the door behind them. The raucous noise of the party subsided to a muffled hum, and it was suddenly much more peaceful. The lawn was flooded with light from the windows, but the woods beyond were dark and quiet. Graham felt a sudden desire to hide in them, to escape from the light and the noise and the windows, and disappear into the darkness with Eric.

"Bloody cold out here," Eric said with a frown.

Graham laughed. "'m not cold." He pulled Eric slightly closer and sighed.

Eric peered at him, his eyes silver in the moonlight. "You're bleeding smashed, mate. You could freeze to death and not feel it." He laughed.

Graham watched his mouth, the soft lips, the flash of white teeth, the tiny hint of a tongue between them. "Not gonna freeze," he whispered, and leaned forward, capturing that mouth with his own.

He heard a startled gasp, but he paid it no attention. Eric's lips were as soft as they'd looked, and tasted even better than he'd imagined. He raised his hands to Eric's head and held it in place while he ran his clumsy tongue over those lips and then pushed eagerly inside for more. He might, he knew, be rewarded with a bite, or a punch, or a knee to the balls, but the prospect seemed somehow too distant to worry about.

Nothing of the sort happened. But nothing else happened either. Eric neither fought him nor responded to him. When Graham at last pulled back, panting, Eric simply raised a hand and ran the back of it slowly over his mouth. Then he stared at Graham as though waiting for an apology.

Instead, Graham kissed him again, more gently this time, taking time to suck and nibble insinuatingly at Eric's entrancing lower lip. Through the rushing of blood in his ears, he heard himself moan. God, it was sweet.

He broke it off reluctantly and rested his forehead against Eric's. "You could help, y'know," he whispered unsteadily. "I like boys who kiss back."

Eric said, "I don't -- " and stopped. His face was flushed, his breath laboured. "I'm not queer."

"I am," Graham said promptly. "You could be too, if you'd give it half a chance. Nothin' difficult about it at all." He grinned. "I'll help you," he whispered. "I'll show you how."

He reached for him again, but Eric stepped back. "No," he said. He didn't raise his voice, but there was steel in it. "I told you. I'm not a fucking queer."

Graham let his arms drop to his sides. They stood facing each other silently for a long moment, before Eric turned and went back indoors.

 

*****

 

He saw Eric many times over the next few months, at rehearsals, shows, parties. At first he ignored him as much as possible. He would catch a glimpse of the bright hair, a snatch of the laughing voice, and turn away quickly. They had no sketches together in the show, so it wasn't too difficult to avoid each other. Graham met a pretty blond girl and dated her steadily for a while, even sleeping with her occasionally. And his steady stream of brief encounters with his own sex in disreputable clubs and back alleys did not diminish. He saw Eric with girls, too, girls kissing him backstage, girls perched gigglingly on his lap at parties, girls leaving with him after rehearsals. Never the same one twice.

He began slowly to gain some perspective on the situation. Eric wasn't the first straight lad he'd tried it on with. He knew many of them weren't nearly as straight as they liked to think. He also knew many of them would have reacted with violence to the kind of pass he'd made at Eric. Eric hadn't. He'd let Graham kiss him, _twice_. Then he'd got cold feet. Perhaps he was just frightened. And he was so damnably _pretty_. Seemed a pity to give up on him so easily.

Gradually, he began bridging the gap. He no longer looked away when he saw Eric. Sometimes he smiled, a casual, friendly smile. Eric responded with surprise, perhaps suspicion, and then brief smiles of his own. They still said little to each other, but there was no longer ice between them. They began laughing at each other's performances, congratulating each other after shows, occasionally having a drink together, though not alone. Graham was careful not to drink too much on these occasions. Once they ended up sitting side by side on a sofa in the rehearsal room on campus, talking and laughing easily, pleasantly close, and after shooting a quick look round to make certain no one was watching, Graham settled an arm around Eric's shoulders. Eric ignored it and went on talking. Graham considered this a victory.

It wasn't until the Edinburgh Festival, which took place just before Christmas, some eight months after their initial meeting, that anything more happened between them. The show was a roaring success, and the party at the promoter's house afterwards was as rowdy a gathering as Graham had ever attended. The drink flowed, and Graham went with it. He drank toast after toast -- to Cambridge, to St. Bart's, to John, to Eric (though he had no idea where Eric had disappeared to; he'd looked for him in vain), to all the Footlights, to Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers and Father Christmas and whoever the hell else he could think of -- until he found himself in dire need of a toilet. He left the crowd and wandered unsteadily through the large house, trying doors with no success. The last door he opened led to a bedroom. And on the bed was Eric Idle, mostly naked and in the process of becoming completely so with the help of a clearly enthusiastic young woman.

Graham stared, frozen in the doorway, until the girl saw him and screamed, wriggling out from under Eric as she did so. Eric started violently and looked back over his shoulder, directly into Graham's eyes. Graham backed out, nearly tripping over his shoelaces in his haste, slammed the door shut and lurched down the hallway. Thank God, the next door he came to was that of the loo.

After he used the toilet, he splashed cold water on his face, and then leaned his spinning head against the mirror over the sink. He was drunk, but the picture of Eric atop that girl was as clear in his mind as anything he'd ever seen.

He left the bathroom, straightening his tie with clumsy hands, just in time to see the nameless young lady disappearing down the hallway ahead of him, hopping on one foot while adjusting the high-heeled sandal on the other foot. Her dress was obviously askew, and her hair was a mess. Graham wondered if she could manage to escape the party without answering humiliating questions.

He didn't hesitate to open the bedroom door. He was drawn to it irresistibly.

Eric sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, wearing nothing but socks and underpants. He looked up quickly as Graham entered, but there was only resignation in his eyes.

"Is this part of the National Health Service's anti-VD campaign? Stop it before it starts?"

Graham was torn between sympathy, arousal, and a terrible desire to giggle. "I'm, er, terribly sorry, old chap. I didn't know you were -- that is, I was trying to find the -- "

Eric waved a hand dismissively and sighed. "Never mind, never mind. There'll be others. Always are. Make 'em laugh and they crawl all over you, don't they?" He paused. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't know."

Graham sank down beside him on the bed. His legs were disturbingly rubbery. "Oh, I would, I would." He attempted a devil-may-care offhandedness. "I assure you, my lad, I am most highly sought after amongst the fairer sex." He was pleased to hear the long sentence come out relatively unslurred.

Eric laughed under his breath and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. "You think women are the fairer sex, do you?"

Graham let his eyes wander slowly over Eric's slender body. "I suppose that's debatable," he said softly, and, emboldened by drink, he laid a hand gently on Eric's thigh.

Eric opened his eyes and looked up at him expressionlessly.

Graham moved his thumb in small circles, stroking the soft skin. Eric's eyes narrowed to slits, whether in hostility or pleasure, Graham wasn't sufficiently sober to be certain. He couldn't keep his eyes on Eric's face anyway. He was too riveted by the sight of the hard length pressing against the front of Eric's underpants. Courtesy of his earlier companion, no doubt, but Graham wasn't picky. He lifted his hand from Eric's leg and cupped his erection through the cloth.

He heard Eric's breath hiss sharply, and then Eric's right hand covered his and pressed it tighter against his crotch. Graham could feel the cock stiffen to its fullest. He squeezed it lightly, his hand trembling. Eric's mouth opened in a gasp.

Graham whispered, "Let me suck it. Please."

He felt Eric shudder, and added shamelessly, "I'm good. Really, I am. You'll like it -- "

"Lock the door," Eric interrupted in a strangled whisper.

Graham rose and did so, then returned to the bed, where he bent down quickly and rubbed his face against the front of Eric's straining shorts, mouthing him gently through the fabric. He heard Eric groan, and smiled. Carefully, he slid the underpants down and off. He took a moment to admire Eric's cock, hard and hot and needy, before kissing the tip softly.

"Fuck," Eric breathed. "Stop teasing and get on with it."

Graham laughed. He felt a dizzying surge of confidence. He had received many compliments on his technique. He knew he could drive Eric mad with little effort. Finally, he was in control. He could stop wanting to beg Eric, and start making Eric beg him.

He slid his mouth slowly down, his tongue tracing the throbbing vein on the underside, his throat opening, relaxing. He felt Eric's hands clutch at his head, but he didn't let that hurry him. He pulled back up, applying steady suction and drawing a volley of hoarse-voiced curses and mindless thrusts from Eric. It was almost too much, almost too deep, and Graham tightened his grip on Eric's hips, holding him steady while he worked at him.

It didn't take long. Graham could have happily gone on suckling him far longer, ignoring the soreness in his cheeks, the steady battering at the back of his throat. But before he'd had a chance to show off half of what he knew, Eric gasped, "Back off, back off, I'm... " Graham did not back off. He took Eric's words instead as his cue to pull harder, and in a moment Eric was crying out and spilling into him, hot seed flooding his mouth, sliding silkily down his throat. He closed his eyes and savored it.

After a moment he raised his head, releasing Eric, and looked up. He always liked to see their faces afterwards, the glazed eyes, the flushed cheeks, the parted lips that looked poised to return the favour. He wasn't disappointed. Eric was displaying all of the above.

Graham lowered his head again and kissed Eric's belly, then continued up his chest to his throat. Eric turned his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, allowing Graham to nibble lightly at his neck.

"Told you you'd like it," Graham whispered.

Eric didn't reply. Graham silently opened his trousers, freeing his own unsatisfied erection. Then he lifted Eric's right hand, and placed it tentatively over his prick. Some straight lads would toss you off after they came; probably, he supposed, out of a feeling of obligation. Others would just tell you to sod off.

He moved Eric's hand gently for a moment, closing his eyes in pleasure, until Eric suddenly shook Graham's hand off and said impatiently, "I know how to do it." He began stroking steadily, pulling and squeezing and teasing the tip exquisitely, while Graham panted with excitement and thought about pushing, pushing hard into Eric's arse. That was enough. He groaned and let go, spattering them both.

When the spasms died away, he rolled onto his back with a heavy sigh. His head spun, and he could put no confidence at all in his legs. Unconsciousness pulled powerfully at him, and he let his eyes drift shut. He wanted nothing more than to spend the night in this bed, blissfully asleep with Eric.

Instead, he felt a tug at his arm. He mumbled a protest, but the tugging persisted, and he heard Eric's voice. "Come on, come on. Let's get out of here before they miss us. Fuck it, _come on_."

Graham felt himself being hauled upright and tucked back into his trousers. The latter sensation was a pleasant one, and he smiled sleepily. He enjoyed being taken care of.

He rested his head on Eric's shoulder for a moment and whispered, "Gonna take me home with ya?"

He heard an exasperated snort. "We're staying at a hotel, remember? We're in Edinburgh. Here, put your shoes on."

"Could go back to your room," Graham said, reasonably. "Or my room. Don't care. Wanna sleep with you." He grazed Eric's neck with clumsy lips. "You're too good to let go."

Eric released his grip on him and stood. Graham sank back down on the bed and listened to Eric's movements as he dressed. Then, dimly, he heard the rustling of tissue paper, and a muttered, "Jesus, it's all over you." He opened his eyes and saw Eric dabbing roughly at his shirt front with the tissue. After a moment, Eric sighed and said, "Keep your coat buttoned and your tie on. I got most of it, but..." Then Eric pulled him laboriously to his feet and settled a supportive arm around him. "Hold onto me," he said. Graham complied, and they moved slowly toward the door.

Just before they reached it, he felt Eric's lips at his ear. "All right," Eric said softly. "We'll go back to my room."

 

*****

 

 _February 1964_

 

He knew one thing; he wasn't going to let Graham fuck him. He wasn't doing that again for anybody.

He wouldn't have done any of it again, but -- well, there were a few reasons. A lot of birds wouldn't go down on you. Some would, but they were so clearly reluctant it took most of the fun out of it. Very few actually seemed to like it, and he wanted them to like it. He hated the feeling of being obliged, of being done a favour. Might just as well go to a hooker. Which he'd done several times -- he was almost twenty-one, after all; he'd got around a bit -- but somehow, he'd discovered to his bewilderment, that never turned out to be as good as advertised, either.

Whereas he'd never met a poof yet who didn't _love_ sucking it down. So there was that.

And he liked Graham. He hadn't particularly wanted to, especially after that drunken kiss the first night they met (all right, _two_ drunken kisses; he'd told himself to walk away after the first, or better yet, flatten the bastard, but fuck, Graham was good at it). But he liked him tremendously. Frighteningly. Graham was nice, funny, sharply intelligent, and an absolutely smashing performer. When he'd had a few drinks, he could be a good conversationalist, if a bit pushy. He was strikingly handsome. He was also, as Eric had discovered in the two months that had passed since Edinburgh, a glorious lay.

That, of course, was the problem. When a bloke made you feel that good, it was easy to lose perspective. Especially when you already liked him so much. It was easy to forget everything else and sink in over your head. He knew that perfectly well.

The thing to do, then, was to keep the upper hand. Don't see him too often. Don't get into the habit of staying the night. Don't make any passionate declarations of devotion, and laugh it off if he does. Maintain your distance. Make it with as many girls as possible, and make sure he knows about it. Don't let him think he's got you.

And _don't_ let him fuck you. No matter how often you think about it.

Those were the rules. He repeated them to himself for the dozenth time as he lay wide awake, staring at the full moon that spilled through the window over Graham's bed, feeling Graham's soft, sleeping breath on the nape of his neck, Graham's warm chest against his back, Graham's long legs entangled with his, Graham's left hand resting lightly over his navel.

Because he knew Graham was asleep, he raised that hand to his lips and kissed the palm very, very gently.

 

*****

 

 _May 1964_

 

They were in his bed this time. It was riskier, because he still lived on campus and Graham had now left Cambridge and taken a flat near St. Bart's, but it was better that way. Graham thought it was daft, but he was adamant. They'd do it here or not at all. He felt stronger on his own ground, more relaxed, less like he was the one doing the chasing. It was a new rule, and he was determined to abide by it.

He hadn't compromised on any of the other rules either, but it wasn't always easy to remember what they were. He was naked and Graham was naked, and they were kissing, rolling back and forth in his bed, hands roaming over each other's bodies, tongues sliding together, lungs pleading for air, and Graham was on top of him now, pressing him into the mattress, and Graham's hands had found his arse and they were stroking and squeezing rhythmically and it felt so good, and he couldn't help the desperate little moaning sounds he was making, and Graham was whispering "Please, please" in his ear, and he dragged Graham's mouth back to his so he wouldn't have to hear it even though he loved it, loved being wanted, loved being begged.

"Please," Graham murmured again, breaking their kiss and rubbing his stubbly cheek against Eric's. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

"No." He tried to keep the strain out of his voice.

Graham looked exasperated. "Why, for God's sake? I can make it good for you, it can feel lovely -- "

"I know exactly what it bloody feels like!" he snapped.

Graham stared at him, and then smirked. "You do, do ya?"

He closed his eyes and sighed, letting his head fall back on the pillow.

Graham cupped his arse again, his fingertips drawing tiny circles on the sensitive skin. "Well, well," he murmured. "Been around, haven't you, for a lad who's not a 'fucking queer'."

He sat up, grabbed Graham by the hair, and forced his head back until the blue eyes were staring, wide and pained, into his own.

"Suck me off." He heard his voice shake, slipping perilously close to breaking. "And I'll suck you too, or whatever else you want. I'll fuck you, if you can wait a bit." He gritted his teeth for a moment and tried to ignore the ache of wanting deep inside. "But you're not fucking _me_."

In the dimness, he saw Graham blink once, twice. Then he said mildly, "All right. No need to lose our little temper."

Eric drew in a long breath, and slowly released his grip on Graham's hair, his fingers cramping slightly as he let go. He was tempted to apologise, and pressed his lips together firmly to prevent it.

Graham was still for a long moment, regarding him silently as he lay back on the bed. Then he lowered his head slowly and began kissing his way down Eric's body.

 

*****

 

They hardly said another word to each other that night, and Graham left while he was sleeping. He didn't see Graham again for months. He could have rung him up at any time and asked him to come over, but he didn't. He never did; Graham always did the asking, and that was the way it was going to stay. If Graham couldn't be bothered, he could bloody well fuck off. Eric occupied himself instead with reading, writing, the Footlights, and sex with a ginger-haired girl he met at a blues club in Chelsea. She loved Muddy Waters and John Mayall, and when she went with him to see the Rolling Stones (he'd just bought their new single "Not Fade Away" and was becoming an avid fan), she told him she'd slept with the blond guitarist last year ("before they got big"), and planned to nail the dark-haired one as soon as possible. He liked that. Honesty and openness, and no shame. He believed in that. He just had trouble living it.

He couldn't tell Graham, or anyone, about Peter. How could you explain something like that? It hadn't even made any bloody sense when it was happening. Now that it was in the past, there were times when he could scarcely believe it. He loved women, loved looking at them, flirting with them, sleeping with them. He couldn't imagine ever _not_ loving them. But he'd never felt anything remotely like what he'd felt for Peter with any girl. It hadn't mattered that he wasn't a poof. It hadn't mattered that Peter was thirty-two, married, and his history master. None of it had mattered from the first day he saw Peter, and it mattered even less after Peter kissed him for the first time. He hadn't been able to summon up even the slightest resistance. There'd been more kisses, more touches, alone with Peter in the lecture hall after class (he'd always sailed through all his exams, but now he seemed to need extra help every day), and one Friday afternoon he'd gone with Peter to his rented flat ("I took it so I could work in peace, away from the children") and he'd done everything Peter asked. He could remember the exact feel of the cheap, rough sheets under his cheek, the look of the pale winter sun pushing weakly against the closed blinds, the tight grip of Peter's hands on his hips, the glorious weight of his body. It hadn't even hurt, though Peter had warned him gently that it would. He'd felt nothing but indescribable joy.

He'd felt it again and again, for months. He'd sat in lectures watching the graceful movements of Peter's hand as he wrote names and dates on the chalkboard, listening to his quiet voice, smiling idiotically. He'd dreamt about Peter, written letters to him between terms ("I'm on the beach at Brighton; fancy coming down to put the sun oil on?"), lain next to him wondering sleepily how it was possible for his previously unsatisfactory life to have suddenly become so perfect.

It was all a secret, of course, but that only made it better. It belonged to him and Peter, no one else. He knew he'd be branded a queer if people found out -- even though he wasn't, of course, he just loved Peter -- and he knew Peter could get into terrible trouble. Homosexual behaviour was against the law. But the legalities of the situation were vague to him, left deliberately unexamined, until the morning he saw the story in the _Times_. The headline read "Wolverhampton Schoolmaster in Homosexual Raid," and next to it was a bad photograph of Peter, hands behind his back, a policeman on each side holding him by the elbows.

He'd been caught in his flat -- _their_ flat -- with "two boys, aged 16 and 17. Their names are not being released on account of their ages."

He never did find out who the boys were, despite furious rumour-mongering in the dormitory. He was 18. He wondered if his name would have been published if the police had walked into Peter's flat when _he_ was there.

The headmaster sacked Peter immediately, of course, and Eric never saw him again. He didn't know whether he went to prison or not, whether his wife divorced him, whether he was ever able to get another job teaching. He didn't want to know. He sat in the classrooms and lecture halls, looking round at the bored, spotty-faced boys and wondering which of them Peter had kissed and touched and fucked, and whether he'd ever slipped and called any of them Eric. He didn't know, so he hated them all, just in case.

Six months later he passed his A levels and was accepted into Cambridge. He never went back to his old school.

 

*****

 

 _October 1964_

 

Graham rang him on a Sunday afternoon in early autumn. When he heard the familiar voice ("Mmm, was just wondering if I could come round and see you, you know, have a bit of a visit, do some catching up") his heart jumped painfully. He tried to feel triumphant -- Graham had given in at last, Graham had been the one to cave -- but he failed. He'd missed him, very badly. He wasn't happy about that, but fuck it, be honest.

The call came at 4:00 PM. By 5:00 Graham was in his room, and five minutes after that they were in his bed. Ginger-haired r & b fans notwithstanding, he was as hot as he could ever remember being in his life, and Graham matched him all the way.

After they'd sucked each other off -- Jesus, Graham was good at that -- they drank the wine Graham had brought ("bit of an olive branch"), and then the wine Eric had stashed in his tiny closet. They sat up in bed, talking and laughing and leaning heavily against each other, and he kissed Graham's shoulder and climbed on top of him and rubbed his swelling cock against him, and Graham closed his eyes and groaned, and he knew they were going to make it again, and he pushed Graham's mouth open with his and sucked hungrily at him, and the hands that settled on his arse and pulled him closer were perfect and he moaned in his throat, his erection trapped tight between their bodies, too tight to move, and he had to move. He squirmed impatiently to loosen Graham's grip, and Graham startled and dropped his hands hastily to his sides.

"Sorry," he whispered, and laughed a nervous, drunken laugh. "Can't go there, can I? Mustn't breach th' fortress, mustn't..." his voice trailed off as he pulled Eric's mouth back to his.

Eric didn't reply, but he felt the familiar ache. He shoved it aside and thrust hard against Graham's cock, again and again, until he came. He collapsed, sighing, and buried his face against Graham's neck.

"Well," Graham said in a strained voice. "All very well for _you_ , but..." He felt Graham's chest heaving, Graham's cock still rigid beneath him.

He turned his head and whispered into Graham's ear. "Put your hands on me again."

Graham hesitated only a second before complying, grasping his arse firmly. Eric sighed, and after a moment he felt Graham's fingers dipping lightly, cautiously into the cleft. He shivered with pleasure.

"All right?" Graham whispered.

He nodded, his cheek brushing against Graham's. He was tired, spent, pleasantly drunk. He didn't give a damn about the rules, not now. It felt too good.

Graham let out a long, ragged breath. "Just -- jus' let me rub against it, all right? Won't try to -- "

Eric slid off him and stretched out on the bed, face down. He felt boneless, mindless with the wine and the sex. "Bloody hell, just fuck me, I don't care. Go ahead."

There was a moment's stillness, and then he felt Graham's lips on his back, brushing over his spine. It tickled, and he arched toward it reflexively.

Graham's voice was hoarse. "Have you got anything -- "

He pointed toward the nightstand. Eyes shut, he listened to Graham rummaging about in the drawer, heard his grunt of triumph as he found the tube of lotion Eric used sometimes on himself. He shoved a pillow under his hips, spread his thighs apart a bit and waited.

He remembered how to relax, and the wine helped. He groaned and sank his teeth into his pillow as Graham pushed into him. He'd come twice and he knew he wasn't up to it again so soon; his cock didn't even twitch in response. But that didn't matter; that had never been what he'd loved about it. It was the fullness, the completeness, the feeling of being held down and taken and loved.

He caught his breath at the thought. He didn't know if Graham loved him. You could never be sure about those things anyway; he knew that now. And fuck it, it shouldn't have mattered. He was getting laid, getting fucked hard, so hard, and Graham's prick was brushing his sweet spot now, and he was gasping for breath, and God, it was lovely, and wasn't that good enough? He squeezed his eyes closed and bucked upward and listened as Graham swore and it shouldn't have made any difference if Graham loved him or not. But it did, because he knew now that he loved Graham. And as Graham moaned and shuddered and bit his shoulder at climax, he felt his heart sink.

 

*****

 

 _November 1965_

 

Graham woke early, rested and content and only mildly hungover, not painfully, not throbbingly, the kind of hangover that only reminded you happily of how much fun you'd had the night before. He yawned and stretched, in the process bumping an arm against warm flesh. He squinted uncertainly in the dimness. Eric. He'd thought so, but his life had been getting complicated lately. As he watched, Eric sighed heavily and turned over in his sleep, burrowing deeper into his pillow.

Graham rubbed his eyes and lay back with a sigh of his own. He was wide awake, but far too comfortable to get up yet. He reached for his pipe on the nightstand, lit it, and took the first pleasant draw of the day.

It was Saturday, he calculated, so he didn't have to be anywhere in particular until evening. He liked the routine he and Eric had fallen into, the Friday nights spent together (often at his flat now; Eric seemed to have forgotten his earlier insistence on always using his own place), drinking, talking, occasionally going out, but always finishing up, if not beginning, in bed. They rarely saw each other any other time, as Graham was deeply involved in his internship at St. Bart's and Eric had recently left Cambridge and was drifting from one low-paid writing job to another, with the occasional detour to repertory work. And now that Anne had entered the picture, Graham had less time than ever.

He'd asked her to marry him last week. Doctors had to be married. He wasn't sure exactly why; he supposed people found them somehow suspect, untrustworthy, if they lacked that outward appearance of stability. Silly, but one did what was necessary, and the writing and performing he was still doing with John and Tim and Marty certainly didn't look to be going anywhere. And he was fond of Anne. She was a nurse at St. Bart's, and she'd told him her parents would be over the moon to have a doctor for a son-in-law. She was funny and pretty and very clever, and he enjoyed her company very much. Their sex life was -- well, nice, he supposed.

By contrast, he could hardly keep his hands off Eric. Funny, that. After nearly two years of on-again, off-again sex, he should have been bored long ago. He usually lost interest fairly quickly. But Eric was different. Moody and snappish one day, sunny and charming the next, always amusing, never dull, he continued to fascinate. His angelic looks clashed with his laddish, rough-boy personality to drive Graham mad. Eric was the perfect combination of _don't fuck with me_ and _come here and fuck me_. He was any ponce's dream, and Graham had him. That was a heady state of affairs.

Next to him, Eric stirred again and opened his eyes. Barely awake, his face looked blurry, unfinished.

Graham tapped him fondly on the end of the nose with a finger. "Morning."

Eric blinked several times and yawned.

"In answer to your unasked question -- " Graham turned to glance at the bedside clock " -- it's a quarter past seven. Need an aspirin?"

Eric closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "No. 'm fine."

"Your personal physician disagrees. Here." He dug a pill out of a bottle in the nightstand drawer and pushed it at Eric, who took it without comment and swallowed it dry.

Because Eric looked on the verge of falling asleep again, Graham put his pipe down, slid out of bed, and headed for the loo. He used the toilet, showered, and was standing before the mirror drawing a razor carefully down his jaw line when he felt arms encircle his waist from behind. Eric's face appeared at his shoulder.

"Bastard," Graham said, conversationally. He scraped white foam delicately off his upper lip. "Almost made me cut my head off."

Eric kissed his shoulder gently. "Don't do that," he murmured. "I'm not finished with you yet."

Graham smiled into the mirror. He loved Eric in this mood -- soft-eyed, affectionate, sweetly seductive. He finished shaving, splashed water on his face, and turned, pulling Eric into a kiss, burying his wet fingers in the shaggy blond hair. It was getting quite disreputably long.

When the kiss ended, he took in a quick lungful of air and whispered, "Breakfast or bed?"

Eric smiled a broad smile. "Both." He leaned in and sucked insinuatingly at Graham's neck for a moment before turning round and heading back into the bedroom.

Graham smiled too, and removed the towel he was wearing, turning to drape it over the shower curtain rod. "I'm not covering your naked body with marmalade, if that's what you're suggesting," he called. "Bloody stuff sticks to the sheets."

He heard the bed springs creak, and Eric's voice floated back. "That's not what I'm suggesting."

Graham turned off the bathroom light and entered the bedroom. Eric was lying on his back, naked, one leg drawn up at the knee. Graham sank down beside him and kissed that knee, then drew back and stroked it with his fingertips. "Ah," he said. "Then perhaps a spot of fellatio would suffice?"

Eric's mouth twitched with amusement. "Perhaps. And will you have the same?"

Graham bent and kissed Eric's inner thigh. "Yes, thank you," he whispered, "I believe I will."

He trailed a line of kisses upward, enjoying the feel of the soft skin beneath his lips and the fine hairs tickling his nose. He heard Eric sigh, and smiled. "You know," he said, between kisses, "I had to teach Anne how to do this, but she's coming along very nicely."

He felt Eric flinch, and then slowly relax. "Is she?"

"Yes she is, quite." He reached Eric's testicles and mouthed them very gently. Eric moaned and moved restlessly beneath him. "And thank God for that," Graham added, licking slowly around the base of Eric's cock. "I mean, would _you_ marry a woman who wouldn't do this for you?"

Eric went very still. His erection weakened, softening just as Graham took it into his mouth. Graham blinked in surprise and pulled back, looking up into Eric's eyes. They were wide, stunned.

But even as he looked, they narrowed and glanced away. Eric's mouth tensed at the corners, and he licked his lips. He spoke in flat, controlled tones. "No. I don't suppose I would."

Graham stared at him. "It won't make any difference to us, if that's what you're thinking. Well, we may not be able to use this flat anymore with her living here, but we can use yours, and..." He trailed off. Eric said nothing. He looked pointedly past Graham, breathing rapidly.

Graham was genuinely amazed. Eric had known he was seeing Anne. All right, he'd never met her, and they'd never talked in any great detail about her -- they'd had far better things to do -- but still...

He dropped a kiss on Eric's chest. "Come on, give us a smile," he whispered. "It's just something I need to do. For my career, you know. I've told you how it is. It won't change anything, really it won't. We've always been careful, haven't we? We'll just go on being careful.. She doesn't need to know."

He saw Eric swallow, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Eric." Graham spoke very softly. " _It doesn't matter_."

Eric turned his eyes back to Graham. The softness was gone from them.

"Right," Eric said tightly. "You're right, it doesn't matter. Fuck it." He pressed his lips together for a moment before he spoke again. "Come 'ere."

Graham wavered for a moment, not moving, and Eric seized him by the wrists and dragged him forward, twisting until he was on his back and Eric was astride him, still holding his arms, and then Eric was kissing him, and it was a hard kiss, a rough kiss, Eric's lips bruising his, Eric's teeth grazing him, and Graham struggled to free his arms so he could pull him closer, hold his head and keep the kiss going. But Eric pulled back instead and pressed their crotches together, and Graham felt Eric's renewed erection pushing, hot, arrogant, against his.

"Bloody hell," he panted, and strained upward for more.

Eric's face was flushed, his eyes glowing with heat. He released Graham's wrists and whispered, "Turn over."

Graham did, with unseemly haste. Through the pounding pulse in his ears he heard Eric fumbling with the jar of lubricant, and then the lovely long fingers were pushing roughly inside, and he was writhing against them, trying to screw himself down on them, but they were gone before he could, and Eric's cock was shoving into him, and he was gasping and swearing and pleading till he was hoarse. Eric was biting him, his neck, his shoulders, hot breath burning his skin, fingers gripping him painfully, hips slamming into his, cock battering him over and over again, no gentleness, no mercy, and he wanted nothing, nothing in the world except for it to go on forever.

He came without anything touching his cock. That was a first.

When it was over Eric rolled off him and he lay, gasping weakly into the mattress, waiting for the tremors to die away. He could hear Eric's harsh breathing beside him.

Finally he sighed and turned onto his back. "Jesus," he breathed. "Jesus _Christ_."

Eric said nothing, and Graham turned his head to see him staring at the ceiling, lips slightly parted, still breathing hard, his heaving chest slick with sweat.

Graham felt a goofy, dazed smile spreading across his face. He snuggled against Eric, laying his head on the bony shoulder and resting an arm across Eric's middle.

"Well," he murmured, and laughed softly. "Didn't mean to make you angry." He put out his tongue and lapped at the salty perspiration on Eric's clavicle. "But I'm very glad I did."

He let his fingers stroke Eric's flat belly. The stomach muscles were tight, clenched. Bloody hell, how could he be tense after _that_?

Graham wasn't tense. He was exhausted, and the sun was barely up yet. Good thing it was Saturday. He closed his eyes and was asleep again in minutes. He didn't stir when Eric slipped away from him, got dressed, and went home.

 

*****

 

 _July 1966_

 

Ibiza was paradise, full stop. He'd never been there before, though he'd heard plenty about it. The beaches, the bars, the clubs, the beautiful Spanish waiters. The _sex_. It was everywhere, and nobody seemed to care who had it with whom. Graham had never seen anything like it. He was twenty-five now and he'd had lots of blokes, drunk in lots of gay bars (he was beginning to get used to the word "gay"), traveled on the Continent a bit, even shared his bed with two sailors at the same time in New Zealand (the next day he'd told John and the others with a straight face that he'd spent the evening "exploring antipodean marine life"). But he'd never been any place where being bent or straight didn't even seem to be an issue. It was bloody marvellous.

He watched a small girl run past him down the beach, shouting and chasing a balloon. He deserved a holiday. He was writing for _The Frost Report_. Damn it, he could still hardly believe it. He was writing for bloody David Frost. So was John, who was actually performing in front of the cameras as well, the fucker. John had helped him get the job, in return for which Graham would gladly have given him a month's worth of blow jobs if John had ever shown the slightest flicker of interest. Eric had wangled a slot on the show, too. Graham so far had only a nodding acquaintance with Frost's other writers, a small, dark Welshman named Terry Jones and his writing partner, quiet, sweet-faced Michael Palin. Graham barely knew them yet, but he enjoyed surreptitiously watching them and speculating about them. Palin had lovely eyes, and Jones -- now there was a definite _possibility_.

He was alone here. He hadn't asked Anne to come because he knew she would have, and her presence would have restricted his freedom. He hadn't asked Eric because the thought of two weeks with Eric, fourteen days and nights of unbroken Idle-ness, with all the drunken rows, cutting remarks, edgy sex, and long, deadly silences he knew that would entail these days, had simply exhausted him. He was under no illusions that a Mediterranean holiday, however lovely, would solve their problems.

He sipped his martini and lay back on his beach towel. He wanted peace and quiet, rest and recreation, limitless drink, and easy, relaxed sex. No drama.

He had begun to feel recently that things were changing, that the world was opening up before him, that the limitations of the past were falling away, leaving him a dizzying array of options from which to choose. He'd taken one frightening decision already. He'd shelved his medical career in favour of television. It was terrifying, wrenching, and he continued to have serious doubts about it, but he was afraid if he didn't at least give it a try he'd regret it forever. Thank God for his parents and his brother, who, though not without misgivings, had supported his decision. Even Anne had told him he should do what made him happiest.

Ah, Anne. He blessed her for her understanding nature, but he knew now he couldn't marry her. She loved him, and he felt badly about that. But it would be a lie. He'd spend the rest of his life lying to her if they married, and he was already tired of it after only eight months of betrothal. He'd have to tell her when he got home. He dreaded it, so he resolved not to think about it again until the holiday was over.

Maybe the breakup would even have a welcome side effect. Maybe Eric would relax again, smile more, stop trying to punish him.

It wasn't just Anne he was tired of lying to. Why couldn't England be more like Ibiza? Why should anyone give a damn who he slept with? Why shouldn't he tell the whole bloody world about him and Eric?

Well, for one thing, because Eric himself would never, ever stand for it.

He sighed, and trailed his fingers in the sand. He'd thought about it before, been sorely tempted to do it. But he'd never quite had the courage. He didn't know any poofters who didn't hide it, lie about it, in some way. Some were much less discreet than others, but he'd never seen any of them just walking down the High street hand in hand, kissing unashamedly in the cinema, sharing a loving embrace on a park bench at midday. Of course not. They could go to prison if they did. He understood that.

But he almost didn't care anymore.

He sat up, slapping a mosquito off his thigh, and saw a man watching him from the shade beneath a sun umbrella. Graham took off his sunglasses and squinted. The man was staring at him, no doubt about it, though after a moment he dropped his eyes and looked carefully toward the sea. Graham smiled. The fellow appeared to be alone. Perhaps he was lonely. Perhaps he was thirsty.

Graham got up and walked across the beach, sand scrunching pleasantly under his feet. As he approached the umbrella, the man turned back to face him, and smiled, a bit nervously, Graham thought. Poor chap probably wasn't used to this. Neither was Graham, on a public beach. But he'd had three martinis, and he was beginning to _feel_ used to it.

He bent down, peering into the shade. "Hullo there," he said. "I'm Graham."

The man under the umbrella seemed to relax slightly. "David," he replied, in the accents of home, and extended a hand.

Graham took it. "Well, David," he said, "I have no one to buy drinks for at the moment. Would you like to volunteer?"

 

*****

 

 _Two weeks later_

 

Graham was lying curled around him, holding him from behind, laying soft kisses over the nape of his neck. He kept his eyes closed and sighed. He wouldn't reciprocate. He wouldn't turn over, look into Graham's eyes, and tell him -- well, anything he couldn't take back. He wouldn't make a bloody fool of himself, any more than he'd already done, of course. But he couldn't help enjoying the gentle touches.

"I missed you," Graham whispered, his breath stirring the hair that fell over Eric's ear. "Every night."

He felt his mouth twitch involuntarily. "Not enough to ask me along, though, eh?"

Graham stroked his hip, thumb tracing the bony ridge of his pelvis. "I told you. I just needed to be alone for a bit. I did some writing, did some thinking -- "

Eric laughed, shortly. "Shagged some poofters."

Graham's hand stopped moving briefly, then resumed its caresses. "Quite right." His voice was even, matter of fact. "Doesn't mean I didn't miss you."

"Oh, I know you missed me. 's not every bloke who's got perfect control of his gag reflex, is it? Don't know if I ever thanked you for teaching me that."

He felt Graham sigh. "It's better to be apart for a while, don't you see? Then when you come back together, it's bloody amazing." He touched Eric's tired cock gently. "Just proved that, didn't we?"

Eric didn't answer. It _had_ been bloody amazing. But it seemed to him that they were always apart. Once a week seemed to suit Graham just fine, but it drove him mad with wanting. Not that he would ever, ever admit to such a weakness. Just feeling it was humiliating enough. Despite all his resolutions, he'd given Graham far too much power over him. He hated himself for that. He knew better. He'd told himself fuck it, he didn't need this anymore, didn't need Graham, didn't need anything that hurt this much. Every Saturday morning since Graham's engagement he'd told himself that. Every Friday night he forgot it.

They lay silently for a while, the damp, tangled sheets pushed down to their waists, the old electric fan turning slowly back and forth, stirring the sultry night air around them. Eric let its quiet buzz lull him toward sleep.

Graham's voice pulled him back. "Did you hear me? I said I'm giving a party."

Eric yawned. "Lovely," he muttered. "Good on you."

"I want you to come."

"Mmm."

"It's going to be a very special party. I'm asking all my friends. And I'll have a new friend there I want you all to meet." He hesitated. "It's a chap I met in Ibiza."

Eric's eyes opened. He stared straight ahead at the wall.

"I wanted to tell you about it first. I'll be telling everyone else on the night." Graham's fingertips stroked his belly. "Except Anne. She's got a right to know ahead of time, too. I'm breaking it off with her, you see. I can't go through with it. The wedding, I mean. Are you listening?"

Eric had never listened harder in his life.

Graham sighed. "I worked it all out on holiday. I'd already decided about Anne. And -- then I met this chap."

"You're in love with him." The words came out so calmly Eric was amazed. He blinked. Must be the numbing effect of shock.

Graham was silent a moment. Then he laughed softly. "I am, yes. Damn it, I wanted to tell you myself."

Eric said nothing. He couldn't. He turned onto his back and looked at the ceiling.

"I'm -- well, we're going to move in together. He feels the same, you see." Graham laughed again, and it was a joyful, happy laugh. Eric felt the stab of an unexpected emotion that he could only identify as envy. Envy that other people could laugh like that.

"I'm fed up with hiding it, I'm not going to lie any longer." Graham's tone was uncharacteristically serious. "David -- that's his name, David Sherlock -- he's fed up with it, too. Neither of us has ever lived with a bloke before, we're both frightened, but we don't care. We just don't fucking _care_."

Eric was silent.

Graham shrugged, as if in helpless wonder. "I know it's all a bit sudden, I can hardly believe it myself, I mean I've only known him a fortnight, but -- "

"But that's the way it is, when you're in love, innit?" Eric interrupted, very softly. "You just _know_ , don't you? I suppose you saw pretty stars, heard violins, tripped hand in hand down the beach to frolic in the tide while fucking bluebirds of happiness circled your queenly little heads?"

Graham refused to rise to the bait. He smiled. "It actually was a bit like that."

Eric squeezed his eyes shut and let his breath out slowly. His chest ached, as though a heavy weight had settled on it.

He felt Graham touch his arm. "I'm not telling you this to hurt you. It doesn't have to be so bloody awful, you know." His voice dropped gently. "I'm not going to lie to David, either. We've talked about it, we're going to be honest with each other. You and I -- I mean, David'll understand that we have something special, that we don't want to give each other up -- "

"Don't tell me -- " He stopped, and tried to get his voice under control. It was shaking badly. "Don't tell me what I want. You have no fucking idea what I want."

Graham's hand fell away, and Eric heard him lie back with a tired sigh. "Should have known you'd take it this way. You are the most unreasonable, contrary bastard I've ever -- loved."

Eric raised his head and stared at him. _Loved?_ Fucking liar.

He got up, almost knocking the fan over in the process. He groped about in the gloom for his clothes, found Graham's first, and tossed them at him. Graham caught them, rose, and they both began silently dressing.

He was doing up the last buttons on his shirt, swearing silently at his trembling fingers, when he felt Graham's hand on his shoulder. He froze.

"It's all down to you, you know," Graham said. "We can go on just as we've always done. I want you to know that."

Eric didn't look at him. "No. I'm finished with it. Not just you. I'm not doing any of this again, ever." He forced a laugh. "You can't trust blokes."

Graham's fingers massaged him gently through the shirt. "News flash for you, my lad. You'll always want it. If you think you can just ignore it, you don't know what being gay's about. You can't just walk away from it."

Eric turned toward him, looking him full in the face. "Watch me," he said.

 

*****

 

 _September 1975_

 

The house was empty. Except for himself, of course, and that hardly counted. He felt little more substantial than a ghost. A miserable, solitary ghost.

He wasn't drinking, that was the amazing thing. He wanted to, but he hated drinking alone and right now he had so little energy he couldn't even muster up the will to go out or to invite a friend over for company. He would have loved to ring someone up and go out on a real tear, hit every pub in town. Mike might go with him, or Neil. But he couldn't seem to do anything but sit in the armchair and stare at the bed.

He'd have to sleep in it alone tonight. It was the same bed they'd spent their first night together in, the bed he'd had in his little flat when he met her. When they bought this house they'd filled it with all new furniture, except for the bed. It wasn't very big, was even a bit shabby, but Lyn had wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons. Women were like that. And she didn't know that he and Graham had slept many a night in it before her.

She'd left that morning, with the baby. Well, he wasn't really a baby anymore. He was two years old, old enough to scream "Daddy", old enough to run back and cling to him. Eric had made certain to be nowhere in sight when they left, to prevent that. And so _he_ wouldn't run after _them_ , either.

It was his fault, he supposed. He probably hadn't been easy to live with, but he'd loved her.

He was gazing fixedly at the frayed place in the counterpane where the baby had chewed on it, teething, when the phone rang. He didn't move at first. The phone was always ringing, with Python business and television offers and calls from friends and calls from people who thought they were friends. He reminded himself vaguely for the hundredth time that he should hire somebody to answer the bloody thing.

When it didn't stop he sighed and got up, moving to the nightstand to answer it.

"Ah, glad I caught you, I'd just about given up."

Graham. He hadn't seen or talked to Graham in -- well, he couldn't remember. Since the _Grail_ premiere back in the spring, maybe.

"Was just wondering if you might like to come over for a drink, or three. Haven't seen any of you chaps for so long you're beginning to seem mythological."

There was a pause, and he actually didn't realise he hadn't said anything past "Hullo" until Graham spoke again, in more urgent tones.

"Eric? You there?"

He didn't get together with Graham except as part of a group, and Graham knew that. They had a silent agreement in that area, and he didn't know why Graham suddenly felt like ignoring it. Being alone together was too awkward, even now. It put him at too much of a disadvantage. It made him remember too many things he wanted desperately to forget.

But it couldn't be worse than what he was trying to forget now.

He blinked and cleared his throat. "Er, yes, yes. I'd, uh, I'd like to come over, thanks."

Graham was silent a moment, and then asked, "Are you a bit stoned? Not that it's any of my business, but you sound -- odd."

Eric closed his eyes briefly. He didn't want to talk about Lyn and Carey, or think about them. He wanted to believe it hadn't even happened.

"I'm -- no, I just have a bit of a cold. I'm all right."

"Oh. Well, if you have a cold, you should drink plenty of fluids." He could hear the smile in Graham's voice. "And I've got the fluids."

From somewhere, he dredged up a laugh. "I'm leaving now. Don't drink all the fluids before I get there."

Graham sounded offended. "Wouldn't dream of it."

 

*****

 

He got on tolerably well with Graham now. In the very early days he'd thought he couldn't take it, working with him every day, struggling with the love and the hate, not knowing from one day to the next which was the stronger. It was exhausting, and though he'd said nothing about it to anybody, least of all Graham, he'd briefly considered quitting. But Python was so good, so popular, so much fun it was clear that any idea of leaving it would have been ludicrous. He'd pushed his feelings aside, filed them under the category of Youthful Mistakes, and done his best to forget all about them. It was the only way he could live with it, and it worked quite well. And by then he had Lyn to help him.

He realised at some point that he'd never really understood Graham, and as time went on and Graham's drinking began to consume his life, he understood him less and less. He watched him sitting silent at meetings, laughing politely but not contributing at read-throughs, turning up drunk and incapable for filming, and wondered why Graham seemed to be trying to fade away. He hadn't the slightest idea what was behind it all. Graham seemed happy with David, though for his own peace of mind Eric tried not to notice that or, indeed, to ever think about David at all. Graham also enjoyed plenty of extracurricular liaisons, which Eric likewise didn't want to know about but which apparently brought Graham pleasure. He didn't know why Graham seemed intent on ruining his life, and thinking about it brought up such a knot of confusing and contradictory emotions it was much easier to simply shrug it off, or try to. Anything else was like prodding an open wound. It was Graham's life, not his, and he had no right anymore, if he'd ever had, to mix into it.

He tried very hard not to care.

And now here he was, arriving on Graham's doorstep with every intention of helping him thoroughly demolish his and David's liquor supply. He felt an uncomfortable twinge at the thought, but fucking hell, he needed it. And it wasn't _his_ fault if Graham was a drunk.

He'd barely taken his finger off the bell before Graham opened the door. Eric wondered if he'd been standing next to it, waiting.

"Welcome, welcome," Graham said, and grinned, holding the door wide.

He studied Graham's face and movements automatically as he stepped into the entranceway. That was what you did with Graham now. You tried to gauge how far along the scale he'd moved from sobriety to inebriation. It was helpful to have a good idea of just how pissed he was before you said or did something he might take unreasonable offence to. It was seldom a question anymore of _whether_ he was drunk, only to what degree.

"David's not home," Graham said, casually, as he closed the door. "He's visiting his parents."

Eric felt himself relax fractionally, though he'd known already that David would be away. He'd never have been invited over otherwise.

He followed Graham into the sitting room and watched from the sofa as Graham headed toward the bar in the far corner. His movements were firm, confident. He was in command of himself, so far. He held up a bottle with steady hands, and turned inquiringly to Eric. "Gin?"

Eric made a noncommittal gesture. "Why not?" he said, because it didn't matter what it was, really. He wasn't going to drink it for the taste.

Graham brought the bottle and a glass for each of them back to the sofa and sank down next to Eric, a careful foot or so away. He poured them each a drink and saluted Eric with a flourish. Eric gave him a faint smile, and reciprocated.

They drank silently. Eric could feel Graham's curious eyes on him, but he didn't meet them. He stared straight ahead and said nothing because there was nothing he wanted to talk about. One good thing about Graham; he had never been one for inane chatter. If you didn't want to talk, he didn't either. And often, even if you did. He understood the pleasures of silent companionship.

Eric closed his eyes and finished the drink, feeling it burn its way downward, and thinking how lovely it would be to sit here and not say a single damn word or think a single damn thought until he passed out.

Graham reached for the bottle and filled both their glasses again. "Well," he said as he set the bottle back on the coffee table. "This is certainly delightful." He took a long swallow.

Eric made a disdainful sound. "If you wanted a party you should have bought balloons and confetti."

Graham smirked. "Oh, of course I wasn't interested in jolly merrymaking. That's why I invited _you_ , love."

Eric didn't reply. He _loved_ parties. He'd been the life and soul of practically every party he'd ever been to. But being alone with Graham was something else again. He didn't know how to do that anymore. There were too many things they couldn't talk about, too many boundaries they had to skirt. Even in the old days when they were together, he'd been hurt as often as he'd been happy, bitterly silent as often as he'd been cheerily talkative, angry as often as he'd been affectionate. It was easier at those times for the two of them to just get drunk than to talk about anything. Or better yet, just fuck. For a while, that had seemed to be the answer to everything.

He worked his way through the second drink and was about to pour another when he felt Graham touch his hair. He went very still, the empty glass clutched in his hand.

Graham tucked an unruly lock behind his ear, smoothing it down neatly. "Bit melancholy today, are we?" he said in a neutral tone, his hand falling away.

Eric waited a moment, but Graham didn't touch him again. He leaned forward and poured the drink. "Lyn's left me," he said. "She took the baby." He hadn't intended to tell Graham that, of course, but what difference did it make?

Graham said nothing for a long moment. Eric wondered, without much interest, if he was surprised.

"Ah," he said at last. "And is that why you're here?"

Eric raised the glass to his lips. "I'm here because you have enough bleeding booze to drown an elephant."

Graham smiled. "You could get pissed anywhere. You don't need me for that." He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was soft. "But perhaps you needed me for something else."

Eric downed his drink and waited a moment until he could speak. "I don't remember ever needing you for anything," he said. It pleased him that he could tell a barefaced lie with such arrogance. He smiled to himself, feeling the gin begin to lick ever so slowly at the edges of his mind.

"Ever think about what other people need?"

He turned his head and saw Graham studying him intently over the rim of his glass.

"I mean, I know it's irrelevant if it doesn't have you at the centre of it, but you might spare it a thought occasionally, you know. What other people need."

Eric stared at him.

"Some people might need friends. They might need to be loved, be appreciated, have a bit of a laugh sometimes..." He trailed off and shrugged, draining his glass. "Pathetic, isn't it?"

Eric shifted uncomfortably. "You've got friends. You're" -- he hesitated -- "you're appreciated."

Graham laughed, and poured himself another drink.

Eric sighed. He obviously shouldn't have come. It was hard enough dealing with his own troubles without taking on Graham's as well.

They said nothing for a long while. Eric closed his eyes and simply drank, loving the spreading warmth, the slowing of his thoughts, the lovely loosening of everything. He noticed vaguely at some point that Graham had moved a bit closer to him on the sofa. His right thigh was nearly touching Graham's left. He looked down at it, wondering, and then up at Graham, who smiled blurrily at him. Graham's eyes were tired, ringed, bloodshot. When had that happened? When had Graham started looking so much older? He felt a pang of real sadness at the thought.

When Graham leaned in and kissed him, he wasn't outraged. He wasn't even surprised. He was too drunk by now to feel the shock he'd felt earlier at the touch of Graham's fingers on his hair. He thought briefly, hopelessly, of Lyn, before he opened his mouth.

Graham made a small, pleased sound. His tongue slipped in, sharp with alcohol, warm and seductive, soft and comforting. Eric could have resisted all of it but the last. He raised his hands slowly to the back of Graham's head and let his fingers curl into the golden hair.

Graham's mouth left his and traveled across his cheek to his ear. "Want to go upstairs?" he whispered. His breath tickled maddeningly. "Bed's nicer than this. Softer."

Eric closed his eyes at the thought. He could detect no resistance within himself whatsoever. "Yeah," he said. "All right."

He'd never seen Graham and David's bedroom. He'd been to their house many times, but he'd managed to avoid the upstairs. He didn't look at it now. He only looked at Graham; Graham's eyes, Graham's smile, Graham's body. It was so familiar, and so strange. Graham had a new scar now, low on his abdomen, where he'd had an appendectomy a couple of years ago. He sighed a long, ragged sigh when Eric kissed it. Graham's hands were unchanged, and they remembered where and when to touch him, and how. He loved Graham's hands.

They said nothing, either of them, the entire time.

Afterwards, he slept. When he woke, he couldn't remember where he was. The sun was sinking outside the window. His head was thick with dull pain and confused impressions and tangled emotions. Lyn and Carey and gin and smoke and Graham's hands. He turned over, bewildered, and saw Graham lying beside him, drawing meditatively on his pipe. When he noticed Eric watching him he took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled, almost shyly.

"Hullo there," he said. And after a pause, "There's aspirin in the lavatory, if you need it."

Eric cleared his throat. "No, I'm all right."

They lay silently for a while, looking up at the shadows that crept across the ceiling. Then Eric said, "I want you to leave David."

Graham didn't react for a moment. Then he turned his head slowly toward Eric and stared.

Eric licked his lips. "I'm -- I love you and I want us to be together."

The words hadn't even left his mouth before panic seized him. He hadn't meant to say that; he hadn't even thought about it. But it was the truth. He hoped his racing heart and sudden urge to throw up were simply manifestations of his hangover.

Graham said softly, "Bit late in the game for all this, isn't it?"

Eric took no notice. "I know I was afraid before, but I'm not now." A lie, of course. He was petrified. "I don't care what people think. I don't care about anything. I want you. I want us to -- "

"Eric, you just lost your family. I think it's fair to say you're a bit distraught -- "

"Don't patronise me!" he snapped. "Listen to me! I -- "

Graham put a hand on his arm. "I'm not leaving David."

Eric fell silent, drawing in a long breath.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I'm not leaving him."

Eric sat up and looked blindly across at the far wall. "I love you."

Graham ran a finger down his spine. "I love David," he said. His tone wasn't harsh or cruel. He was simply stating a fact.

Eric was still. He didn't turn to look at Graham. He was afraid to.

At last he said "All right" and got up. He dressed silently, knowing that Graham was watching him. When he sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and shoes, Graham said, "You still don't understand it."

He tied his shoe deliberately. "Understand what?"

"You think I don't care about you. You think it's got to be all one way or the other, that if I love someone else I can't love you as well. I've enough to go round, you know."

"No," Eric said, rising. "I can't live like that. I'm too selfish."

He turned toward the door, but before he reached it Graham was behind him, still naked, sliding his arms round Eric's waist, holding him in place. Eric flinched at the sudden warmth.

"Don't go yet," Graham whispered. "I don't want you to leave yet. Stay and have another drink with me."

Eric turned slowly in his embrace, backed up slightly for leverage, and punched him in the eye.

It didn't make him feel any better.

 

*****

 

 _August 1989_

 _Dear Graham,_

 _Haven't heard from you in a bit, so I hope this letter finds you feeling better. You shouldn't trust doctors, you know. They are often wrong and sometimes unequivocally loony._

 _I said I hadn't heard from you, but in fact I have, indirectly. I read your recent interview in the_ Guardian. _One shouldn't trust the press, either, of course, and I never do unless I've read the same tripe multiple times over the years. I think you know to which tripe I refer._

 _I don't know why you insist on telling this same ridiculous story over and over again. If you're trying to humiliate me, I must tell you it isn't working. No one who knows me would believe it, and everyone who knows you is aware of your liking for tall tales (bullshit). So you're accomplishing nothing, if that's your intent._

 _If you're trying to get back at me in some way, I simply don't understand your reasons. I can't think of anything I've done to you that would justify these little digs of yours. I can, however, remember some instances of the reverse. Perhaps I'm being petty._

 _If you're trying to hurt me personally, you've done it. You may think I shouldn't be so sensitive. I've tried not to be, but it's simply the way I am, as you well know. I am a bit compulsive, and have difficulty letting go of things that matter to me, even if they were over and done with long ago. This is my weakness, and not your fault. But I do wish you wouldn't take advantage of it._

 _I really have nothing more to say. Greet David for me (I do mean that) and please take care of yourself. A vegetarian diet can sometimes work wonders._

 _Love,  
Eric_

 

*****

 

Graham folded the letter carefully and sighed. He winced as he twisted sideways to place it on the cluttered nightstand. He was in pain most of the time now, and the drugs they gave him did only so much to alleviate it.

He hadn't meant to hurt Eric, of course. He'd _never_ meant to hurt Eric. It had just seemed a funny joke to tell the first time, considering Eric's public reputation and private appetites. And the damn book was called _A Liar's Autobiography_ , wasn't it? That was part of the joke. But some interviewers had picked up on that bit and asked him about it, sniggering, and he'd gone along with it. It was funny. And it seemed silly afterwards not to repeat it in later interviews if he was asked about it again. One didn't explain jokes, after all.

But he probably shouldn't have done it, considering Eric's touchiness about the past.

He'd ask David if he should reply. But what he could say that wouldn't result in further recriminations, he couldn't quite imagine.

He didn't want to die with Eric angry at him. Though, he thought with a touch of amusement, it sometimes seemed as if he'd lived half his life with Eric angry at him, so why not?

He looked up as the nurse came in with his dinner tray. Not vegetarian, he noticed.


End file.
